GOAL! Owning the Skinny.

Words of endearment can take many forms in our society. Sometimes one woman’s obscenity is another woman’s saccharine magnetism. That’s what I discovered last week when, for the first time someone called me a “skinny b*itch!”

It came on the occasion of my introduction at a Brown Bag comedy show last week —just two days after I had achieved my Weight Watchers goal weight. After nearly five years of struggle, the battle of the bulges has reduced me to a fraction of the human blubber factory I once was. To paraphrase Mahatma Gandhi, I was the change that Michelle Obama wants to see in the world. After shedding 160 pounds, one Weight Watcher “bravo sticker” at a time, I finally could look in the mirror and see change I can believe in.

I have struggled with obesity for decades. This was my fourth round through Weight Watchers, the first time ever where I achieved goal. When I was younger, I could lose 100 pounds with ease — I could follow the original Weight Watchers formula and consume liver and avoid legumes, or I could follow the Skinny Bitch formula outlined in the New York Times bestseller and live in an immaterial vegan world — for a few months.

Readers of this space know I have done some remarkable things to my body over the years. As a result, my body feels the need to hang on to things. Blubber is apparently a key ingredient in my body’s self respect. It feels the need to recover blubber at any and all cost — even if it means going dumpster diving through life’s high calorie pleasures like a Somalia child unleashed for the first time in front of the chocolate fountain at Salty’s West Seattle weekend buffet.

Weight loss tried my soul. Food is my soul mate. I did not need a splendid Canlis table to satisfy my inclinations. Any cheap junk food up and down Aurora Ave could typically spend the night with me, and I wouldn’t throw it out in the morning — even under the threat of a disease or food poisoning. I lost my carnivorous virginity to a bratwurst in Milwaukee, and until that January moment nearly five years ago, I never looked back.

Now, I must now make amends to those who I have damaged along the way. There are the easy fixes — like the toilet seats I crushed while proving the theory of gravity. Then, of course there are more difficult amends, like my public outbursts of rage when an airline wanted me to buy two seats for my bulk — in first class no less!

Then, of course, I must make amends for the economic damage I’ve done to the world at large (or triple extra large). There are several buffet restaurants around Seattle that have folded over the past four years as a result of my Weight Watcher extreme makeover. At least two “fat lady” fashion stores have ceased to exist now that I have dropped from their largest size to the largest size at the “skinny” store.

Sure, I am still supporting the big shoe stores, the only size that unfortunately has not changed during this entire weight loss episode. A few years ago I joined a gym that was under construction in the hopes that my weight would drop by osmosis because I joined a gym where I could not attend. Unfortunately for my blubber, the gym actually opened up, and I was forced to serve actual time.

Now, the handwriting is on the wall, and I’ve got the “skinny” on a new way of life. I can still have the occasional bratwurst if I want, I tell myself, but only if I travel to a Philadelphia street vendor, where I found the best. Sure, I no longer have to buy two airline seats, but traveling 3000 miles for lunch remains somewhat of a hassle.

At last, I have my self respect back, It is time that I owned the “skinny” title. I can actually appreciate good food again. Look out for me, I’ll be the skinny b*tch standing at the freeway exit with a sign reading “need $100 for dinner at Canlis!”